Échappé
by CelestialDrgn
Summary: AU, HD slash. Harry Potter has been accepted into the School of American Ballet. He is soon immersed into the competitive field of professional dancing and sensual subculture of the performing arts.


Échappé (1)

_ay-sha-PAY_ Escaping or slipping movement. An échappé is a level opening of both feet from a closed to an open position.

Harry Potter glanced at the letter in his hand, then back to the imposing building.

This has to be the right place, he thought, shifting the duffle bag for a more comfortable grip. The School of American Ballet was written on the cream envelope, matching the brick sign in front of him. This was it.

Traffic traveled past Harry, a few passing cars splashing oily rainwater onto the curb. A light drizzle was coming down, dampening Harry's slightly curled locks. It was now or never. Mentally picturing Julie Andrews skipping down the dirt Austrian road, Harry strode boldly toward the glass doors, singing under his breath, "I have confidence they'll put me to the test! But I'll make them see I have confidence in me."

A cool breeze greeted him as he pushed open the glass doors. The atrium of the building was simply designed. A sparse amount of furniture littered the hall, and music could be heard coming from one of the unseen wings. A kind looking blonde woman sat at the front desk. She looked up as Harry approached.

"May I help you?"

"Um…" He replied eloquently. "I'm new here?" His voice trailed off, raising painfully into a question. Harry winced.

The secretary grinned. "Yes, I can see that."

'Fuck!' he thought, feeling warmth flood to his face. 'Way to go, brilliant first impression.'

"Did you receive a letter?"

"Yes."

Hastily, Harry handed the woman his acceptance letter, and dropped quickly to the ground, digging out his admission forms from his bag.

The woman, after reading through the letter, looked up to reply to the boy, only to find he was gone. She blinked, stunned, then stood up and looked around. A mop of black hair caught her attention, and she looked down, forcing herself to bite back a laugh.

The bewildered boy straightened, and handed her a stack of slightly crumpled papers.

"Sorry," he said.

"That's quite all right."

She skimmed through the paperwork, noting occasional bits of unique information. Full name, Potter, Harry J. Age, seventeen. Place of birth, Surrey, England. Current residence, independent – parents deceased.

Oh my.

She peered back at the non-imposing waif of a man. So this was the mysterious boy everyone was talking about. His accent should have been a dead giveaway.

Straightening the papers, she handed the stack back to the teen. "Admissions is the third door to your right, down that hallway."

"Thank you, miss."

The secretary watched him leave, knowing fully well that the school would experience a change – a very significant change, with the addition of this young man.

Harry continued, unaware of the scrutiny he was receiving. People were always staring at him, and at the scar on his forehead. He was used to it by now, how they would see his quiet figure and stare, curious to the shroud of mystery he seemed to carry.

All of his prior judges had. Just who was this boy who danced so naturally, perfectly channeling the mood of the music? They watched, entranced as he became the physical manifestation of the music. He was emotion. He was pensiveness. He was sadness. He was dream-like. He was joy. The stage was the one place Harry could be free of his worries, of his memories, of his wishes, of his nightmares, and just be. It was liberating. It was intoxicating. It was addictive, this freedom that ironically, detached him from emotions, yet allowed him to convey that of the piece flawlessly. And as soon as the song finished, his face, strangely beautiful, returned to the blank canvas it was before the judge pressed play. This was his stage presence: a chameleon to the music. Offstage, he was a different being entirely.

The admissions office was just as Spartan as the atrium. A couple of girls in nothing but black leotards and white tights lounged unashamed in a couple of chairs by a mini bar, chatting softly. They looked up as Harry entered. Ignoring them, Harry walked to the desk.

For the second time, Harry handed over papers. The girls looked at each other when they heard him speak, his voice soft, accent apparent. Harry waited patiently while he was processed.

The attendant smiled. "We can get you settled in immediately. I'm sure one of these ladies could see you to your room, Mr. Potter."

"Thank you," he said, picking up his duffle bag. He turned to the two girls, waiting for the awkwardness that always followed.

To his surprise, the two girls stepped up confidently.

Apparently they made girls differently in America.

"My name is Hermione Granger," said the brunette one. Her hair was pulled half-up into a bun, leaving the rest of her hair to cascade delicately down her back. "This is Pansy Parkinson."

The mentioned girl had short black hair pushed back from her face with two clips on either side of her hair. She grinned at the boy. He nodded to the girls.

"I'm Harry Potter."

Both of the girls' smiles grew.

"You're from England, aren't you?" Pansy asked, green eyes sparkling.

Harry's eyebrow twitched.

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Of course he is, idiot." She turned to Harry. "I'm sorry, she's a little slow. You must get that all the time."

The raven-haired boy gave a slight smile. "It's alright, I'm used to it."

The girl nodded. "Before we bring you to your room, would you like a tour?"

Harry nodded. "Sure."

The trio started off for the dormitory, shared with The Julliard School. Pansy and Hermione gave a running commentary of the building as they walked, pointing out the classrooms and random tidbits of trivia as they walked.

"Ninety percent of the dancers in the New York City Ballet are alumni from SAB," Hermione stated as they passed a window with the view of Lincoln Center and Fordham University. The rain had increased in intensity and was now pounding the pavement relentlessly, casting the city in a dense, grey veil. Harry stared at the scene, his reflection watching him in return.

"Really."

Pansy sighed. "'Mione, you're boring him."

"Maybe he's just quiet," the brunette sniffed, hurt by the girl's comment.

"Mysterious and brooding," said Pansy with a grin. "Just how I like them."

A beat.

"Unless you're gay."

Silence.

Hermione slapped the back of Pansy's head.

"Ow!"

"Again, I'm very sorry. She was dropped on her head too many times as a child. Really, she's gotten attached to the stereotype. I'm incredibly sorry if she's offended you."

Harry, for his credit, managed a smile. The comment had surprised him, sure, but it was more the timing than the content. It was true – a hefty sample of male dancers were homosexual. And he had run into his fair share in England, as well as other things. The parties were, to say the least, memorable.

Harry put on his most British accent, sending her a hither-to look. "I'll leave that up to you, shall I?"

Pansy giggled excitedly. "Ooh, I can tell, you'll drive me crazy!"

Their brunette companion rolled her eyes, biting back a grin. "Panse, dear, he's only just arrived. Please refrain from hitting on everything with a penis."

"Oh, but it's so fun watching the gay ones squirm!" She skipped down the hallway, the other two in her wake. Pansy turned her head back to them. "So we did establish your gayness, yes?"

"Pansy!"

"I'm not doing anything wrong!"

"No, just- "

Crash.

"The laundry cart, Pansy. The laundry cart."

A groan. "Yeah. Thanks for that."

Harry tilted his head back and laughed. He knew from the start America would be a very interesting place, indeed.

End Chapter 1


End file.
